Free Amy & Roger's Epic Detour by Morgan Matson

Graceland, I can attest to its non-lameness. It’s an American institution. And we’re going. We’ll pack up the car—”
    “Wait a second.” Charlie sat up straight. “We’re driving? To Tennessee ?”
    “We’re going to discuss that,” said my mother, looking up from her paper. “It’s a long way, Ben.”
    “No better way to see America,” my father said, leaning back in his chair. “And when we get to Memphis, we’ll see Beale Street, and the ducks at the Peabody, and get some barbecue….” He turned to me and smiled. “You ready to navigate, pumpkin?”

She’s gonna make a stop in Nevada.
    —Billy Joel
    “Are we headed the right way?” Roger asked, glancing over at me. I pushed his sunglasses up and rotated the map. I had directed us out a different way, since it had looked easier to leave through the other side of Yosemite, rather than retrace our path to the park entrance.
    “I think so,” I said, looking at a sign as we neared it. But it was completely covered by the branches of the tree next to it. I could only see a strip of green at the top. “Oh, good,” I muttered.
    “I’m just a little turned around,” said Roger, peering ahead of him.
    “We’re okay,” I said, seeing, relieved, a sign that wasn’t overgrown with branches and told us which way to get to the highway. “Just take the right up here.”
    “I’m glad you’re on top of this,” he said, making the right. “I’m not the greatest with directions. And I can never tell when I’m lost, either. It’s a bad combination, because I always think that if I just stick with the road long enough, it’ll all work out.”
    “Well, I’m good with maps. So I’ll navigate,” I said, speaking around the lump that was threatening to form in my throat.
    “Excellent,” he said. “You’ll be my Chekov.”
    I looked over at him. “Anton Chekhov?” I asked. “The playwright?”
    “No, Chekov, the navigator of the Starship Enterprise ,” he said, looking back at me. “From Star Trek .”
    “I’ve never seen Star Trek ,” I said, breathing out a tiny sigh of relief. Maybe Roger wasn’t quite as cool as he’d first seemed.
    “Now that’s a tragedy,” he said. “Though I must admit, I’ve never read your Chekhov.”
    The road, as we left Yosemite, became more winding and more deserted. It was just a two-lane road, and as we made increasingly sharp turns, it became clear that we were in the mountains. As I looked at the pine trees surrounding us, it seemed impossible that we were still in the same state we’d been in yesterday, with freeways and palm trees.
    “You ready to put on some of your music?” Roger asked, as his mix started over again.
    “That’s okay,” I said. My suspicions that Roger didn’t like musicals had been confirmed when I’d seen his playlist. He seemed to like the kind of music that the in-the-know people at school always seemed to be talking about, the kinds of bands with names that didn’t even sound like real names at all. Someone Still Loves You, Boris Yeltsin? That was a band? A real band, with fans other than Roger? So I had a feeling he wasn’t going to be into my selection of Jason Robert Brown and Elvis. And I wasn’t listening to Elvis anymore, anyway.
    “Really?” he said. “I don’t want to keep hogging the DJ job.”
    “It’s fine,” I insisted. I didn’t want to have to watch him pretending to enjoy my music, or just tolerating it, waiting until he could switch back to his stuff. It was easier to keep listening to his. And I found that I actually liked a lot of it.
    “Want to at least give me an indication of what you like?” he asked.
    I shrugged, wishing he would stop grilling me about this already. “I like everything.”
    Roger shook his head. “Such a cop-out,” he said. “If you like everything, that’s basically just saying that you don’t really like anything.”
    “I like stuff,” I snapped, sharper than I meant to sound. “I just don’t